


Things I Would Give to Oblivion (But This I Will Keep)

by solfell



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Cuddling & Snuggling, Fluff, Fluff without Plot, M/M, No Plot/Plotless, One Shot, Post-Captain America: The Winter Soldier, Recovered Memories, i'm a sap and now everyone knows
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-10-09
Updated: 2014-10-09
Packaged: 2018-02-20 13:40:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,845
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2430869
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/solfell/pseuds/solfell
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Even if Steve doesn’t remember, Bucky knows it happened. It’s not one of the fake memories. He doesn’t need a confirmation. He just wanted to tell Steve; it’s nice to want to share things.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Things I Would Give to Oblivion (But This I Will Keep)

**Author's Note:**

> *tap-dances across the room singing, "I don't know how to write physical intimacy," and crying*
> 
> Part of the title taken from Pablo Neruda's poem There's No Forgetting (Sonata), as translated by Ben Belitt. (Who is actually my favorite translator of Neruda poems.) 
> 
> Not beta-ed, so any problems are totes my fault and I apologize.

Regaining his memories is a process. Everyone said it would be, everyone expected it to be, and Bucky resigned himself to that process a few months ago. So, while some memories come to him easily and don’t hurt all that much, other memories don’t work that way. The other kind appear, then disappear, then resurface days later with brighter colors and sharper details.

Sometimes he’s convinced certain memories aren’t real, never happened, and were once upon a time a hallucination. Maybe they were implanted; he doesn’t know enough about what _they_ did to him to know the limits of their capabilities. All he knows is that what they did worked and worked for a long time, and is often still working.

But he’s getting better. Everyone around him says so, and there are days when he doesn’t feel like his insides are hollow and echoing with indecipherable words.

The memories that come to him nowadays help more often than they hurt. And when he can catch tethers to the past, he feels better. It’s not a quantifiable _better_ , but still. He’s glad for it, most of the time.

 

The past doesn’t chronologically in his head, which is a continued frustration. Academically, he knows the order in which things happened, but for some reason snippets from the 1970s fall in place next to bits from when he was a teenager. And that isn’t right. He doesn’t want hot summer evenings when things were mostly okay anywhere near gun powder residue on his hands and blood soaked into his boots.

The dissonance rings so loud in his head, and he tries to put everything in order and force it to stay there. More often than not, memories are like rubber bands, snapping right back again and again until he’s on the verge of tears from a pounding migraine.

On those days, Steve makes sure all the lights in their apartment stay off. He closes all the blinds and tells their friends and colleagues to stay away. Bucky curls up in bed and Steve keeps a warm compress wherever Bucky’s head hurts the most, and presses his fingers in soothing circles where it doesn’t.

Bucky tries his best to be honest with himself, and he can admit that the worry and distress in Steve’s eyes is almost, _almost_ as bad as pain in his head.

 

So, yes, among other things, he has some temporal issues. He actually doesn’t mind that as much as the implanted memories and hallucinations. It’s easy enough to sort through those and discard them, but it’s the principle of the thing.

Occasionally, he’ll ask Steve if what he remembers really happened. Just to be sure. That, and he loves the way Steve’s eyes light up when he remembers something about their past, all those years in Brooklyn and then in Europe. He likes rebuilding those memories with Steve’s help. It makes them seem more real.

Steve doesn’t remember everything, though, which irritates him and Bucky thinks Steve’s irritation is actually pretty funny. Kinda sad, but mostly funny. He gets this pinched look on his face, as if someone’s stepped on his foot and he’s too polite to get upset at them.

“You know you’re still human, yeah?” Bucky asks.

Steve’s always been hard on himself. Even if Bucky can’t be the person he was and doesn’t need to finish Steve’s fights for him anymore, at the very least he can remind the guy that he’s human. And humans aren’t perfect, which doesn’t need to be said. Everything that’s ever happened to them is because of that universal fact.

 

The most recent thing he’s remembered is a good memory from before the war. He remembers they were waiting—the details won’t come in clear, so maybe they’re waiting for a trolley or a bus. And it’s cold.

One of the ironies about their lives now is that the cold doesn’t actually bother them. Psychologically, they might dislike the cold, but their bodies run too hot to feel the real effects of winter. When the rest of the city bundles up under layers and layers, Steve might throw on a sweatshirt. Maybe a light jacket and a scarf. Bucky has a proper coat, just to blend in.

Before, though, before the war and all the hells made them who they are now, they were in constant battle with the cold.

So, it’s the feeling of being cold that Bucky remembers first. He and Steve are waiting for something—a bus, a trolley—and it’s cold. It’s nighttime and the city is bright. Not as bright as it is at night nowadays, sure, but bright enough. He’s not sure where exactly they are, but he knows they’re going home.

Snow and slush cover the streets. It might be New Year’s. Steve shivers and wobbles and his cheeks are alcohol-flushed. It isn’t the first time they’ve gone out to have a drink, but it’s definitely the first time Bucky’s ever seen Steve drunk. Steve’s the kind of guy to nurse one drink the whole night, partially because they don’t have the money for more and partially because he’s worried that too much will affect his health. (Not that he’s overly worried about his health; he just doesn’t want to get sick and then have Bucky skip work in order to take care of him. Not that Bucky’s ever minded.)

Anyway, they’re drunk and cold and waiting. They babble and giggle at one another like they’re much younger than they really are. Steve shivers. Bucky looks up and down the street, waiting for the bus or trolley or something and even if they aren’t alone on the street and cars trundle along beside them, it feels like they’re the only real people left in New York.

His nose is cold, and he pulls Steve close, wraps his arms over thin, bony shoulders. Steve sneaks his hands under Bucky’s coat and warms them against the small of his back. His teeth chatter against Bucky’s sternum. Bucky props his chin on the top of Steve’s head and wonders where his hat went. Steve had a hat earlier, didn’t he? Oh well, at least Bucky’s here to keep him warm.

It’s nice. The alcohol haze and holding Steve close. Steve snorts and laughs at a joke Bucky makes.

For once, he doesn’t worry much about how they look to outside eyes. His relationship with Steve has always been _other_ and _more_ and in that ambiguity is room for things he can’t let himself want. But right now, he’s not worried about how they look or what he feels about Steve. Maybe it’s the lowered inhibitions, but mostly he thinks it’s because he’s happy and he lets himself be happy. Stupid happy because he’s so gone on this kid and he doesn’t even know what that fully means. He risks the moment to press a kiss to the crown of Steve’s head.

Bucky would be more than happy to stay like this until Steve decided to stop.

The memory gets fuzzy, and they’re back at their apartment. Steve slumps down at the rickety kitchen table, cheeks still pink and his eyes crinkled at the corners with good humor. Bucky turns the stove on; the kitchen is never warm otherwise.

He pours Steve a glass of water and sets it on the table; Steve flashes a grin and mutters a thanks. There’re some saltine crackers in the cupboard. Bucky makes sure Steve eats a few before sending him to bed. When Steve passes Bucky towards their shared bedroom, he pauses and presses his hand to Bucky’s arm. His eyes are bright in the dimness of the kitchen.

“Thank you,” he says again.

And then he’s gone, and Bucky isn’t sure what he’s being thanked for this time.

 

When Bucky tells Steve about the memory, they’re watching the sun rise from a sofa in the living room of their Avengers Tower apartment. Bucky has a mug of tea clasped between his hands; he was never a tea-drinker before, but it’s become a habit since none of the coffee tastes right. He doesn’t actually know what coffee _should_ taste like—it’s just everything he’s had so far has been _wrong_. Sam says it’s all in his head, and Bucky can’t disagree.

He drinks tea, Steve drinks coffee, and they watch the New York skyline brighten. It’s a fucking great view. Steve leans against Bucky’s shoulder, still sleep-loose. There’s a crease from his pillow on his cheek, and his hair sticks up in the back. They try to take as many calm moments as they can; it’s been a few days since either of them were on a mission. That means Bucky’s had more time to think, to remember.

Steve listens in silence while Bucky speaks. He usually doesn’t say much when Bucky recounts a memory. Then, he might ask a question or two, to clarify or understand the context if the memory is from after the 1940s.

Steve pauses when Bucky finishes, and doesn’t say anything for a few moments.

Even if Steve doesn’t remember, Bucky knows it happened. It’s not one of the fake memories. He doesn’t need a confirmation. He just wanted to tell Steve; it’s nice to want to share things.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Steve’s lips curve into a smile. Steve sets his mug down and stretches his arms over the back of the sofa.

“I had a horrible hangover the next day,” Steve remarks. “Swore I’d never drink again.”

“How’d that work out?” Bucky wonders.

“Pretty good, until the next time you dragged me out,” Steve replies with a short laugh.

“Sorry,” Bucky mutters, and he ducks his head some to hide a grin.

“I couldn’t drink that much anyway, since it aggravated my ulcers. Besides, if I didn’t want to go out, I wouldn’t’ve. You never forced me.”

Bucky nods.

They lapse into silence. Bucky sets his mug on the floor. He settles closer to Steve, who brings one of his arms down over Bucky’s shoulders. Bucky tugs at Steve’s hand until their fingers are laced and held against his sternum. Steve presses his face into Bucky’s hair.

They’ve never talked about it explicitly—the state of their relationship. Steve probably doesn’t want to push Bucky and Bucky still struggles with making decisions on his own from time to time. But they both know they’re together, whatever that is.

“I always liked havin’ you close,” Bucky says in a soft voice.

“Yeah, me too. Still do,” Steve responds and brushes his lips against Bucky’s temple before straightening.

Bucky’s not a religious guy, but the kiss feels like a benediction. And he’s okay with that, if it’s coming from Steve. He smiles. It’s a small, soft expression. He meets Steve’s gaze and says, “Good to know.”

Sunlight crests over the city and spills into their apartment. Steve’s fingers tighten around Bucky’s for a moment. Bucky lets himself believe that today’s going to be a good day, and that allowance means more, perhaps, than his hope itself.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Rambling author note: The memory this fic circles around is actually just a modified bit from my life. Like, I hate writing non-fiction, but I really wanted to capture a particular moment in my life, so this was my solution. Besides, the person I was with--drunk, waiting for the bus, hella cold and cuddling for warmth--is my platonic lifemate. In a lot of ways, she's the Steve to my Bucky. Or the Bucky to my Steve. I've never been able to sort out who's who in all the great duos. Maybe because we're our own duo. (Yes, I know, I'm a sap.)
> 
> Anyway, she's living 2k miles from me at the mo' and I've been thinking a lot about her. Combine my missing her with a latent love of CA:TWS and--voila, fic!


End file.
